


Wonder

by laugh_a_latte



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: AU, Angst, Christmas, Christmas Party, It's a Wonderful Life, M/M, Michael in the bathroom AU, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21942277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laugh_a_latte/pseuds/laugh_a_latte
Summary: (It's A Wonderful Life AU!) After Jeremy rejects his help at Jake's Christmas party, Michael finds himself panicking in the bathroom, wishing he was never born. Knowing that's impossible, he's ready to go through with his other option for not existing when a curious stranger shows up to grant him his heavenly wish.
Relationships: Jeremy Heere & Michael Mell, Jeremy Heere/Michael Mell
Comments: 38
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched It's A Wonderful Life yesterday and _had_ to stop the presses to write a trope-y BMC au of it, especially since George Bailey and Michael both have that line "wish I was never born!" This is a multi-chapter fic that I am planning to finish by New Years, since I'm a bit late to finish it by Christmas. If you've seen It's A Wonderful Life before, you know what's gonna go down. If not, enjoy the ride!

The pounding on the bathroom door almost perfectly syncs up with the pounding of Michael’s heart, beating so quickly he can’t believe it isn’t killing him.

And his breath is coming so rapidly, in and out faster than his lungs can process the oxygen, so much so that he can’t believe it isn’t killing him.

And Michael’s chest hurts so much, and he can’t tell if it’s the pounding of his heart, or the tightness in his lungs, or the fact that his world, his heart, is shattering within him, that he can’t believe the pain isn’t killing him.

And the more Michael realizes that his body should be killing him right now, the more he realizes that he _wants_ it to be killing him right now.

Michael sinks down from the edge of the bathtub onto the floor, pulling his legs to his chest. He buries his head in them, then yells until his throat is raw. The bass from Jake’s stupid Christmas party drowns out the sound so well, he can’t even hear it.

Jeremy hates him. His best friend, the only person he’s ever loved, hates him. And he doesn’t know what he did wrong to make that happen. He didn’t do anything, right? He tried to help him. He tried to tell him about what the microcomputer will really do. He tried to save him. And now the only person he’s ever cared about is going to end up in a mental hospital, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

And he feels so selfish, because despite how dangerous this all is for Jeremy, Michael doesn’t care, because all he wants is his best friend back.

He just wants Jeremy back, and that’s never going to happen.

He doesn’t think he can live with that.

He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to live. He wants to die.

God. No, that’s not it.

Michael doesn’t want to die. Then people would have to deal with it. Some poor person will find him on the floor of this bathroom, and some poor paramedics would have to put him in a body bag, and his moms would have to pay for that. He doesn’t want to do that to them.

No, he doesn’t want to die. Instead, he wishes he was never born at all.

It’s his fault Jeremy was never cool, it’s his fault Jeremy was so unhappy all the time, and it’s his fault that Jeremy took the Squip. He drove him to that mall, after all.

Jeremy would be so much better that way.

Wow, the world would be so much better that way.

The pounding on the door outside fades away. Michael can only hear ringing in his ears.

Michael lifts his head. The medicine cabinet is there, above the sink.

And he can’t not be born, but he can still make the world a little better.

Michael doesn’t realize he’s standing until his hand in on the cabinet handle.

The pounding on the door outside is back. But now it’s only one person, and it’s much louder, but Michael barely hears as he opens the cupboard, eyes darting from option to option.

There are so many bottles. Any one of them could do the trick. Michael lifts his hand.

The pounding outside grows louder and louder until the door slams open, hitting the bathroom wall hard.

It startles Michael so badly he drops the bottle in his hand.

He locked the door, that shouldn’t be possible, but there, in the door frame, is this tiny chick.

“What-What the—” Michael chokes out between rushing breaths.

She slams the door behind her and locks it in a frenzy. Michael backs up against the wall.

No, no, that shouldn’t be possible, and he needs to be alone right now. He needs to be alone right now so he can—

So he can—

“ _Move!_ ” This chick shrieks, throwing the cabinet open fully. Michael moves just in time so it doesn’t smack into his face.

He watches her in a haze, confused and freaked and still feeling like he’s dying, as she grabs a prescription bottle. She starts twisting the cap, but the child lock gets stuck. She throws it on the floor in frustration, then reaches for a different bottle. She looks at the label, and throws that one down, too, reaching for another bottle. And Michael’s world slows down as he realizes what she’s trying to do.

No, no, she can’t do that—

“Hey,” Michael says, voice shaking, reaching towards her. He realizes he can almost breathe again. “Hey, stop—”

She reaches for another bottle. Michael steps between her and the cabinet. “Hey, man, you don’t have to do that.”

He looks at her. She’s crying, but her mascara isn’t running. She takes a step back. “Why not?”

Michael takes a step towards her. What does she mean, why not?

“Fuck, dude, because look at you! You’re so—” God, she only looks like a freshman. “You’re so _young_. And have so much ahead of you, and Christ,” This girl, this person. There’s something magical about her. “Someone is going to miss you so bad if you do that. God. It’ll ruin them,” and suddenly Michael can’t see her. Michael can only see Jeremy. “That ruins people,” Michael takes a step back, wondering where all that life inside him went. “You can’t do that to a person.”

“Oh, yeah?”

And there's this odd certainty in her voice that brings Michael back, and he can see her again, but something isn’t right.

There are tears on her face, but she’s not even crying.

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Yeah.”

“But then why were you going to do it?”

Michael blinks. “What?”

“You were going to do it. Why?”

She shouldn’t know that. Unless. Unless, yeah that’s it, maybe she saw the bottle before he dropped it. That’s what happened. His heart slows down.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It would to Jeremy.”

Wait.

Michael feels this heavy dread wash over him. “What did you say?”

“And your moms, Michael.”

Wait, wait. “Wait, how do you know my . . .”

“I’m Clara. I’m your guardian angel, Michael.” What? “I know everything about you.” No. “I watched you grow up.”

Michael looks back at her. She’s practically glowing, smiling at him. “You’ve done quite a lot for people, Michael Mell. I don’t think you understand what you’d be doing if you went through with it, the lives you’d be affecting.”

Michael leans back again the sink, looking down at his shoes.

“I don’t do anything for people. I don’t affect any lives.”

Michael feels her step closer to him. “Well, you saved mine, just now.”

“Of _course_ I did,” Michael snaps, eyes flicking up to hers. Anyone would do that, that doesn’t make him special. That doesn’t make him good. And Michael wants to tell her that, but instead his eyes just fall down, back to his shoes, because he doesn’t think there’s much point to that, anyways.

And fine, whatever. Maybe he's going crazy, maybe he smoked some bad pot, maybe the lack of oxygen is making him hallucinate. Maybe this chick is his guardian angel. Okay. He’s too tired to care anymore. He doesn’t find much point in it anymore. “Well.”

“Well, what?”

That thought, that wonderful thought from earlier creeps back up on him.

“Well, what if I was never even born at all?” Michael says, so quietly.

He’s so tired.

“If I never existed,” it’s such a comforting idea, “Then no one would miss me, and everyone would be so, so much better off.”

Michael feels his eyes widen.

Yeah.

“Yeah?”

Michael stares at his shoes, and that idea starts unfolding before his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Jeremy would never have met me. And, God, Jeremy’s just so . . . Maybe he could’ve been cool. Maybe he could’ve—God, he would’ve been _happy_ ,” Jeremy deserves to be happy. Michael’s eyes start stinging. “My moms wouldn’t have adopted me. They probably would’ve adopted some other kid, some better kid. Some kid who doesn’t come with the doctor’s bills that I come with, the cost of therapy and medicine and everything they have to get me because I’m so fucking broken, yeah?” His moms wouldn’t be struggling so much financially without him. They’d be happier, too, with some happy, perfect kid that isn’t him. He’s just so expensive, and so awful, and such a problem for them.

The revelations, the pictures of this perfect world, start coming quicker.

“I’m like this—this _weight_ ,” Michael says, as his life starts rolling before his eyes. Everyone he’s ever met, interacted with, talked to, spent time with. “Everyone either thinks I’m a loser, and ignores or makes fun of me, and it used to really suck, but I’ve gotten to the point where I can—can _deal_ ,” Michael shakes his head, and blinks and blinks so his eyes will stop stinging.

“But then there’s the odd person who actually wants to get to know me, right?” Michael explains, his voice becoming taught and tight. “Jeremy, Brooke, Jenna—They think I’m going to be great, because people always think I’m going to be _just great_ ,” Michael’s throat is sore, so sore that he coughs over his words. “They—they think I’m this fun-spirited retro-stoner-whatever who’s happy and fun to be around, and then they get to know me and find out I’m full of problems, but by then it’s too late, and I’ve affected them, I’ve made them _care_ , and I just—” God. “All I do is make them worry. I make them worry, and then they think I’m going to do shit like, like—” Michael chokes up and throws his hands down, gesturing to the bottles littering the floor, “Like _this_ ,” Michael yells, feeling the tears fall down his face, trying to sniff the snot away as the dam inside of him breaks. “So they worry, and check in on me, and are so fucking polite to me, and talk to me all delicate, like I’m a bomb about to explode, like I’m sick, and I wish they would just _stop it,_ because it makes me feel awful, and makes them feel awful and wish they never even _met_ me at all, because they didn’t know when they met me that I’d be such a burden to just _know._ ”

Michael cries, and cries, and tries to stop the flow of tears and snot with his sleeve, but he can’t help it, and he hates this.

He hates this type of crying, because it’s a different type of crying from before Clara busted in here. Before it was because his body was malfunctioning from his stupid panic attack. But this crying isn’t a malfunction, not at all. 

This crying comes from somewhere so real, so true, deep inside his belly. From that tender place that hurts to feel because of how raw everything there is.

This is the worst type of crying.

Clara stares at him, her face unmoved.

Michael lets himself cry and yell until all the truth inside of him is out in the open, ugly and tangible.

And once it’s all outside of him, Michael finds there is nothing left inside.

He sinks down to the floor and stares at the tile, littered with orange bottles.

“So yeah,” Michael says, his voice completely even, his face so wet that it’s raw. “I wish I was never born.”

Then Clara gets this look in her eye before she says, “Okay.”

Michael’s eyebrows raise, confused. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she claps her hands together. “Congratulations, Michael. You were never born. You don’t exist.”

Michael looks around him. The bathroom looks exactly the same. He presses his hands into his chest. And yeah, he’s still there. He’d laugh if he could. “I think I definitely still exist.”

“Well then,” Clara says, unlocking the door. She looks down at Michael, sitting against the sink on the floor, as she twists the knob. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is gonna go places. Just go along with it for the best reading experience :)
> 
> (Shout out to my friend Alex for beta-ing this chapter! Ily!)

Clara can’t believe she fucked up this badly on her first job.

And she feels so bad for Michael Mell, because maybe if she was a little more experienced as a guardian angel, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

For centuries, Clara has been observing, learning, and training to become a guardian angel. It’s no easy feat. No amount of studying, shadowing her mentor, praying, training, or hard work is enough for this type of job, not even centuries of it. For the job of protecting a human life.

Human life, her boss's greatest accomplishment. And to get the chance to guard one? There’s no greater honor.

And finally, she got her turn.

She even got someone named after her mentor, the wonderful guardian, Saint Michael.

She promised Michael, her wonderful Michael Mell, that she would do right by him.

After all, so much can go wrong in protecting people. Clara's heard the stories. She was the best student in her class, after all.

A guardian angel’s job is to guide and protect. Guardian angels can’t make decisions for those they watch, but they can be there to help, to guide, to nudge in the right direction. They’re that voice in your head, that gut feeling in your stomach, that thing that somehow always knows what the right thing is to do.

And in her time training, Clara’s seen it all, from the people who listen to that voice, to those who don’t even hear it.

If a guardian angel is lucky, their person will listen. Clara’s seen so many cases of that. The people who talk to their angel, ask for their angel. It’s a wonderful break to get to watch over someone like that, someone who always sees the signs their angels put out, because they’re always looking.

But not all angels get people like that. Some people never listen or ask for help. They don’t look for the signs because they don’t know they’re there. They don’t feel their angel’s presence. They don’t even try to. Clara always thought it’d be like talking to a brick wall, having a person like that to protect. Like screaming into nothingness.

Clara used to think that nothing could be worse than having a person who doesn't listen, who doesn't hear.

But still, so long as that person, despite not listening, despite being ignorant, still lived in her boss's light, she thought she might be able to navigate that.

So Clara kept training, confident that she could protect any type of person.

But then she watched her mentor, the best guardian angel she knew, lose someone in the worst way possible.

And Clara wished and prayed that she would never have to protect that sort of person. After all, she's seen how attached to their people angels can get, and to become attached to someone whose soul has been pulled so far down into darkness and depression, that they couldn't see any light at all, that they'd extinguish the light her boss had gifted them? Clara couldn't imagine it.

And Clara saw how heartbroken her mentor was when he lost that person to such darkness, because that person couldn't even help it. They didn't choose to turn away from her mentor's light. It just . . . Happened.

Clara didn't understand. She asked her mentor about it.

He told her that these types of people have so many voices in their head that their angel’s just gets lost in the chaos. Good people, people who don’t even realize they’re letting their souls get pulled down until they’re so overcome by that empty nothingness that their angel, eventually, loses sight of them.

And Clara knew that type of person would be the worst of all to have.

So Clara was thrilled when the first person she ever got to protect was Michael Mell, because there was no way in heaven that a boy like that could ever become Clara's worst nightmare.

But ever since Michael started high school, it's become harder and harder to lead him in the right direction. It’s like the signal to him became static-y. Hearing him became difficult, and Clara didn’t know what to do.

But, it was fine. She learned how to navigate that. She prayed for Michael on the days she couldn’t hear him ask for help, and she did everything she possibly could when their voices did connect in that chaos.

Then, since the beginning of this year, it started happening more and more often. And Clara kept pushing, kept trying, her tries becoming more drastic, more desperate, because there was no way her Michael could ever become that type of person.

Her Michael Mell, who she watched grow up from a baby.

She was with him when he entered this world. She watched him, a sweet baby boy, get put up for adoption. She helped him through that abusive foster care system, the best she could. She found his mother’s guardian angels, and they all worked together to help those women find Michael.

She watched him blossom into such a happy kid. She watched him meet his best friend, and was thrilled to see him really become himself with that boy. She watched him go through school, a quiet, polite, somewhat nerdy boy. She watched him at his birthdays, she watched him at his middle school graduation. She got to watch him pass and fail and learn all those years. And it was so beautiful to watch him discover all those things her boss put inside of him, all those things that made him who he was.

Michael Mell.

But then he got older, and she watched that wonderful smile he had waver. She watched it become something he forced. She watched it fall, and she watched him cry. She watched him scream. She watched him hurt, and hurt, and hurt so much that he hurt himself, late at night, when he thought no one was watching. But Clara, she was always watching, and she screamed and cried and asked Michael’s namesake what she did wrong as a guardian angel to not be able to prevent him from doing _that_.

And then she couldn’t watch him, because she couldn’t see him.

And Clara took a step back, because her worst nightmare came true.

But then, so slowly she thought she was imagining it, she could see Michael again. But it was different. Because instead of seeing her happy, bright, wonderful Michael, she only saw a shroud of darkness, depressing over him.

And those centuries of training weren't for nothing. She saw what happened with her mentor. She knew exactly what that darkness meant, and she knew exactly what would happen next.

So she came to this Christmas party to stop that from happening. She appeared to Michael, and met him, and told him who she was. Which is, essentially, the one thing you should never do as a guardian angel.

And she knew the best way to prevent Michael from throwing his light away, like he was so determined to do, was to let him save someone else. So, she busted into that bathroom and let him do just that.

Michael’s always been good at helping people. At least, as an angel, she never had to worry about her person not being good.

Clara thinks of all the people Michael’s helped along the way, without even knowing it, by being so good. All those lives he’s touched.

“Well then, let’s go for a walk, shall we?” She says, as confidently as she can, flipping the lock on the bathroom door. She looks down at Michael, curled up against the sink.

Michael doesn’t look convinced at all that this is real, but she looks away before she can think about it too much. It just hurts too much to see that darkness around him.

And she can’t really blame Michael for not believing her.

But he’ll see, soon enough.

She really hopes so.

* * *

In the split second before Clara opens the door, Michael feels what must be pure, unfiltered fear in the pit of his stomach, because what if . . . What if this is legit?

But the door swings open before Michael can react, and loud, pounding music pours into the bathroom, along with the unmistakable sound of teenagers making mistakes, and Michael relaxes back against the sink.

It’s just Jake’s Christmas party.

Some girl walks through the door, just as Michael is pushing himself off the floor.

“Are-are you leaving?” She says.

Michael blinks at her. And then—

“Oh my God,” Michael says. It just slips out.

It’s Jenna Rolan, but she looks way different from the Jenna he knows. The Jenna he knows is tall and confident and talks and talks and talks. This girl looks like none of those things. This girl looks . . . Sad. And scared. Like she wants to be swallowed up by the floor.

Michael stares at her. Jenna Rolan. Cool and popular and way ahead of him. He wonders what the fuck happened to her since he saw her yesterday.

But it’s not his place to ask, and she’d be embarrassed to be seen talking to him. Michael doesn’t want her to be embarrassed. He scrambles to leave so he doesn’t get in her way.

“Sorry, yeah,” he says, with a quick look at Clara, already standing outside the door as he pushes past Jenna. “Sorry, Jenna.”

“Wait.” Jenna steps in front of Michael, blocking him in. He looks down into her eyes. She looks . . . “How do you know my name?”

And if this night can’t get any worse, now Jenna has to mock him, too.

“Really?” He says, taking a step back. Jenna Rolan. They used to be kinda cool, back before Jenna became cool. “Really, Jenna?”

“What?” She shakes her head, and the surprise in her eyes shifts to confusion and fear, and that just confuses Michael more.

“I-I just,” Michael scrambles, because it doesn’t make sense how she’s being all mean, pretending not to know who he is, while looking so, so scared. “I know you’re-you’re popular or whatever you wanna call it now, and don’t wanna talk to me anymore, but . . .” Michael trails off as Jenna takes a step away.

And Michael knows Jenna Rolan, from those few months back in middle school where they were not-quite-friends before she became popular. Michael _knows_ her. And he knows she’d never pretend to forget him because she _knows_ that would hurt him. That would be a step too far.

They don’t hang out anymore, but he knows she’d never be mean to him like that.

But here she is, doing just that. But maybe she isn’t, and Michael is so, so confused.

“Popular?” Jenna shakes her head, slinking back into the doorframe. “Who are you?”

“What?” Michael gasps. “We used to be friends, dude. Middle school? I showed you how to hack people’s social media, remember? We thought that’d be fun, and then-and then you—” And then she figured out how to use that hack to gain knowledge of people, and she used that knowledge to become popular. Then, she got better, cooler friends.

But right now, Jenna is just looking at him like he’s a ghost.

Michael looks at Clara, over Jenna’s shoulder.

Maybe he is a ghost.

No, no, that cannot be happening.

“Look, you must be thinking of someone else, but I need you to leave this bathroom because I need to be alone for a few minutes,” Jenna mutters, pushing past him, avoiding his eyes. Michael slowly walks out of the bathroom, staring at her. “I should never have come to this party in the first place,” she says, so softly, voice shaking, before she slams the door shut behind her.

Michael stands there, staring at nothing on the door.

“I can’t believe she’d pretend to not even know me,” Michael says. Because that has to be what she’s doing, because this cannot really be happening.

“She’s not pretending. She doesn’t know you because you were never born, remember?”

It just can’t be possible.

Michael takes a step closer to the door. He thinks he hears crying.

“You were her first friend, Michael Mell.”

“I know that, but that doesn’t . . .”

That doesn’t matter.

“It does matter, Michael,” Clara says, moving in front of Michael. “You were so good to her. You encouraged her, you showed her love, you showed her she was worth something. When she came up with that idea of figuring out how to hack social media, you figured out how with her. You said you thought it was neat, too, but really you just wanted to see her happy.”

“But,” Michael can’t think. Michael can’t breathe. “And this is a big but. But, if I was never here . . .” And all Michael can hear is Jenna crying through the door.

“Then she never made a real friend.”

“But she left me,” Michael argues, looking back at Clara. Jenna left him, just like everyone else.

“That doesn’t mean you never helped her, Michael. That doesn’t mean you never showed her she was worth having friends.”

Michael stands there, hearing Jenna Rolan crying through the door, and he very suddenly needs to leave this party.

So Michael moves, trying to navigate the pressing, pushing crowd of loud, drunk classmates, wondering why the fuck no one has stopped him yet to tease him, to yell above the crowd, to ask who the hell invited that weirdo, that Michael Mell, to Jake’s party.

And he’s almost to the door, and he’s too distracted by the beautiful thought that he’ll be out of this suffocating party soon to realize that he’s about to run smack into—

“ _Hey!_ ” a girl shrieks. “Watch where you're—” And then her voice catches, and Michael looks up to apologize, but he looks right into the eyes of Chloe Valentine. And she is looking at him with this softness that he’s never seen from her. At least, not directed at him.

“Oh, _hello_ ,” she purrs.

And Michael wants to be terrified that he just ran into the most popular girl in school, but that quickly dies at that weird tone in her voice.

“S-Sorry, Chloe—” Michael stutters, trying to get around her before she starts screaming or something.

He does not _expect_ her to grab his wrist and say, “Hold on, you’re not getting away from me just yet.”

“What?”

Chloe bites down on her lip. “Did you come here with someone, cutie?”

“ _What?_ ”

Her nails dig into his wrist as she looks him up and down.

“Creeps? Is that a new band or something?" Chloe hums, offering Michael a sly smile. "What’s your name?”

And Michael thinks of every single time Chloe Valentine would scream when Michael would accidentally brush against her in the hall, yelling for someone to get her bleach so she could wash his grossness off, that look of disgust in her face whenever they’d accidentally make eye contact in class. Her mocking his fashion choices, low and cutting in his ear as they passed each other in the hallway, whenever he added a new patch to his hoodie. He thinks of every mean and derogatory thing she ever said to him.

Because Chloe knows who he is. He’s been in the same damn class as her since preschool. She knows him.

And she would never look at him like—like _that_.

“Do you really not know my name?”

And Michael wants to be freaked, because this means either both Chloe and Jenna have lost their minds in the same night, or this means he really was never born, but both of those scary thoughts are way overshadowed by the fact that Chloe Valentine is currently undressing him with her eyes.

“Oh, you are _so_ cute.” Chloe leans into him, so much so that he can smell her citrus shampoo, and Michael is still in much too much shock to move back, like every voice in his head is screaming at him to do. “I don’t need to know your name for what I want to do to you right now, anyways.”

And that does it.

Michael tries to pull his arm from her grasp, but she’s got ahold of him good.

“Hold on,” she says, “I’m not done here—”

And Michael looks around, in a panic, because he cannot believe Brooke is letting Chloe do this, because even if Brooke didn’t know who he was, he knows Brooke would never let Chloe get this creepily predatory over a guy, but Michael doesn’t see Brooke, and that’s weird because Brooke is _always_ by Chloe’s side—

“Where’s Brooke?” Michael yells.

And suddenly his wrist is free of Chloe’s nails.

Michael pulls his arm back, holding it to his chest, and is about to run, but stops at that look in Chloe’s eyes.

“What did you say?”

And now she looks pissed.

“What?”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Chloe hisses. And Michael takes a step back because she also looks like she’s about to cry. “You know, I may not know who you are, but it’s clear you at least know who _I_ am, so you _know_ I don’t think that’s very funny.”

“I don’t . . .” Michael trails off. Chloe starts crying.

Like actually crying, and Michael has never seen Chloe cry. Not once.

“ _What?_ Are you going to tell me I was a horrible friend to her, too? Like everyone else did after she died?”

Wait.

“Because I’ve heard it from everyone I know, even my closest friends, so the last thing I need is some hot _stranger_ tearing me apart over how I didn’t treat her right, too.”

_Wait—_

Michael’s world stops spinning, and he is too confused, too freaked, too busy trying to make sense of anything, to realize Chloe is raising her hand.

Her slap stings. Michael feels the shock ripple across his skin, and then the sounds and chaos of the party wash over him as the world starts spinning again.

By the time Michael has registered he’s just been slapped by Chloe Valentine, she’s disappearing into the crowd around him, but he barely notices.

Brooke.

No, no, that can’t be true.

“Well that was weird,” Clara says, to Michael’s right. He turns to look at her.

“Brooke. She’s not,” and then Michael wants to laugh, this is so ridiculous. “She can’t be—”

But Clara isn’t returning Michael’s smile. She just looks at him. And Michael feels his smile fall.

God.

“How,” he asks, shaking his head. “How did she . . .”

“Car accident,” Clara explains.

Michael shakes his head more and run his hands through his hair, pulling at the back of it. That can’t be right. How could he have prevented something like that from happening from simply existing?

Michael thinks hard about Brooke Lohst as the party fades away around him.

They sat next to each other in math last year. Yeah. And he helped her finish her homework before the teacher got there sometimes. He never minded letting her copy.

She never did anything bad to him, and he liked seeing her smile when he complimented her nails. They were new every single week. She said no one ever noticed that before. Then they would smile at each other.

That thing between them never moved beyond that, and Michael knew he wasn’t worth giving up her popularity for, so he never pushed, even when it hurt a little. But she was always kind to him, by sending him these apologetic looks whenever Chloe said something mean, or by distracting Chloe whenever she thought Chloe took her mean words too far.

One time she even apologized to him for Chloe’s behavior. Michael brushed it off. It wasn’t Brooke’s fault, after all, he knew that. Yeah. That was when . . .

That was when . . . When she was drunk.

After school. Way after school. Michael spent like two hours in the bathroom by the theatre, getting over another panic attack. And then he was supposed to go drive Jeremy home after play rehearsal, but because he was busy having a panic attack, he never got the memo that rehearsal was cancelled and Jeremy ended up having to take the bus home.

But Michael didn’t know that until he was walking into the dark theatre.

Michael felt like an idiot for not checking his phone before then, and he was just about to slip his headphones on and leave when he thought he heard crying.

He waited, then heard it again, coming from somewhere backstage.

Michael slowly walked down the aisle, lit only by the dim ghostlight on stage, debating if he should go check on it or just leave.

And he stood there, listening to muffled sobs for much too long as he debated. In the end, he couldn’t find it in him to just walk away when someone was having a breakdown, especially since he could have used a friend during his not twenty minutes before.

So Michael found his way into that dark, cluttered backstage area to find Brooke nestled between the paint sink and over-crowded shelves, crying over a bottle of shitty rosé.

Michael sat down next to her, and let her snuggle up against his arm as she cried and cried, and he tried not to mind the snot that was getting all over his hoodie.

And she cried, straight from that tender place Michael knows so well, and asked Michael how it was possible for her to feel so much while feeling like nothing at the same time. She told him how no one noticed her, or saw her, or cared about her. Not even Chloe, when Michael brought her up.

And Michael held her, eventually taking away her bottle of wine, as Brooke cried and cried about Chloe. And Michael’s heart beat a little slower that day as he found out just how much Brooke loved Chloe, and how much it hurt Brooke that Chloe would never love her back like that.

Michael held her, and told her all about Jeremy.

And then, Brooke thanked him for noticing her, in the darkness of that theatre. And Michael didn’t think that was anything to be thanking anyone for.

After all, anyone would have done what he did that day, right?

And Michael knew that whatever they found between them that evening would never make it to the light of day. How that type of conversation was meant only for dark theatres, where you couldn’t really see the eyes you were confessing to. But that was fine, because they couldn’t really see you, either.

Michael poured the rest of the rosé down the paint sink as Brooke cleaned up her makeup in the dressing room, and then he drove her home.

And Brooke died in a car accident.

“What kind of car accident?” Michael asks, looking into Clara’s eyes. They crinkle at the corners when she offers him a small smile.

“I think you already know what kind.”

“But I drove her home,” Michael says, feeling his heart sink.

“No, you didn’t,” Clara says. “You were never born, so you were never there to drive that drunk, broken girl home.”

Michael’s heart hurts. His head hurts. His whole body hurts, and he just wants to go back home and sleep off whatever this nightmare is that’s happening to him.

And then, Jake’s voice, to his left. “Ouuuuccch, dude!”

Michael looks at him.

“What’d you say to Chloe, man?”

Michael just shakes his head. Jake Dillenger. _Talking_ to him. It’s just too weird.

“Better luck next time, bro,” he says. And then his eyes start sparkling. “But, you know, if Chloe’s crying because of _you_ , that means she’ll be all over _me_ if I go find her and make her feel better, right?

“Right . . .”

“Right!” Jake yells, and then he claps Michael hard on the shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he says, and then he turns to go find her.

But then Michael gets this thought.

“Jake! Jake, _wait_ ,” Michael yells. “Where’s-where’s Jeremy?”

Jake stops and looks back at Michael. And Michael’s heart sinks further at the blank look on Jake’s face.

And that can’t be right. Jeremy’s friends with Jake. Or at least, he is now, ever since he took the Squip and made cooler, better friends than Michael.

“Who?"

And suddenly, Michael can’t feel his heart at all.

“Forget it.”

Michael watches Jake smile at him before he disappears back into the crowd.

The crowd pushes, dances, carries on and on, revolving like a solar system all around the stillness of Michael.

Michael doesn’t notice.

This weird, horrible feeling forms in his stomach.

“Clara,” Michael says. He can’t hear himself speak, but Clara appears right in front of him, nonetheless. “Where’s Jeremy?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAAA remember when I said I'd finish it by the new year? Well now It's almost May. But hey, time doesn't exist in quarantine!

Michael is staring at Clara’s back as they walk to Jeremy’s house. His car was missing from the party. Clara said since he didn’t exist, he didn’t have a car.

That hollowed Michael out, but not as much as Clara’s lack of a response for where Jeremy was.

She said she wasn’t allowed to tell him, whatever that meant. And Michael figured he probably wasn’t at the party, since Jake didn’t know him, so that means he’s probably at home.

God, Michael hopes so.

So they’re walking in silence to Jeremy’s house. And Michael is trying to distract himself from this pit in his stomach, so he watches the ribbon ends in Clara’s hair. Whenever she takes a step with her right foot, they sway left, and vice versa. The red is stark against her otherwise white outfit.

But then Michael gets to his own street and pauses. Clara stops in front of him, bringing the red ribbon to a standstill. She turns around to face Michael.

Michael holds her eye contact for a second, scared to look down his street, but the need for something to be okay again quickly takes over, and he looks. He can see his house from here. It doesn’t look right, though.

Michael doesn’t feel good about this.

He feels his feet walking up to it, and the closer he gets, the faster he moves, because this can’t be right.

But, no. Michael knows where his house is, this has to be his house.

He stops in front of it, and his eyes can’t decide if they want to land on the dark windows or empty driveway or overgrown lawn or dilapidated for-sale sign in the front yard.

He shakes himself out of it, and goes to the front door. He tries it, but it’s locked. He looks for the loose sideboard where they keep a spare key, but he sees that it’s completely fallen off the side of the house.

Michael blinks down at it, half covered in dirt below the front window.

“No, no, no,” Michael can’t help but say as he feels around for his wallet, his keys, anything. But there’s nothing in his pockets. “Where is . . .”

He feels Clara next to him. “You don’t have a wallet, or keys to this house, or a driver’s license, Michael. You—”

“Yeah, I don’t exist,” Michael interrupts. “I get it.”

Michael looks back at the front door. “I-I need to . . .” But Michael trails off as Clara puts her hand on the handle, and opens the locked door without a problem. Michael isn’t even surprised at this point.

He takes a slow step inside.

And there’s nothing. His house is completely empty, save for a thick blanket of dust covering the floor.

“What . . .” Michael shakes his head, because if there’s no furniture in his house, where are his moms supposed to live? Where are his moms supposed to . . .

“Mom?” Michael yells out. It echoes back to him, as he creeps further into the dark room. “Ma?”

“They’re not here.”

And Michael knows that. It’s obvious that no one’s been here in years, so he doesn’t understand why he can’t quite believe that. He stops himself from yelling out again. Instead, he turns to look at Clara, standing by the front door still.

“They never adopted you, so they never needed to move out of their little, shared apartment in Brooklyn.”

“That’s-that’s crazy,” Michael argues, but he knows it’s useless, but this doesn’t make any sense because, “We moved to Jersey. They moved out. They said they hated living in the city, in Brooklyn. They hated it, and they didn't want to have a family there. They’ve told me thousands of times. There’s no way-this doesn’t make sense—”

“Well, they do hate it, you’ve got that right.”

Michael shakes his head. “But didn’t they adopt some other kid?”

“They wanted to adopt, Michael, but they never found you.” Clara explains, “You were meant for them, Michael. There weren’t any other—” and then Clara looks away, like she knows something he doesn’t. “. . . Matches.”

Michael runs his hand through his hair. That can’t be right. His moms are the best parents in the entire world. Ma is constantly telling him how much she always wanted to be a mother. She told him having a kid was, like, her dream. Her and Mom wanted a kid together. And he always felt so bad about that, because he was probably the most disappointing dream-come-true ever. That they’d return him if they could, because who would willingly keep Michael Mell?

So, it just doesn’t make sense that they’d never . . . Without him . . .

Michael’s eyes land on the archway to the kitchen, those thoughts slowly swirling away as a new thought emerges. He starts walking towards it, leaving footprints in the dust.

The moonlight streaming in from the windows provides enough light for Michael to find the door to his basement. It’s open.

Michael stands at the top of the stairs, feeling them creak under his feet, waiting for he-doesn’t-know-what. Eventually, he goes down. He just needs to see.

And Michael regrets that almost immediately because it’s just like he expected, just like he dreaded.

Michael’s never seen it completely empty like this. The moonlight from the little window above where his bed should be just shines on crappy carpet, the beams illuminating disturbed dust, floating in the air. The walls are bare, and that Jeremy-sized hole in the drywall from that one time he fell when jumping on Michael's bed isn't there. Michael stares and stares at that perfect drywall until he can't anymore.

Then, Michael turns his head, looking around. He can’t stop running his hands through his hair, pulling where it’s longest. His throat feels funny and his eyes sting as the vacant corners mock him.

Everything he’s ever done in this room attacks his senses. It’s like he can see, hear, and even smell every moment, all at once. The first time he ever slept down here, when he was ten, begging his moms to let him move his room to the basement because the basement was so _cool_. Seven years of comics and video games and homework sessions and panic attacks. Seven years of laughing and crying and getting high as shit, of getting away from the summer heat, or building blanket forts with Jeremy in the dead of winter. Seven years of growing up and learning and living.

Seven years of Michael.

And he looks around at this basement, his basement, empty save for the spiders on the walls because Michael was never there to fill it.

He can’t bear to look at it anymore.

Michael turns his head away, running up the stairs like a monster might grab him.

After all, most of those memories were shared with Jeremy.

Clara’s waiting for him at the top of the stairs. “I need to find him,” Michael tells her. She follows him out, their footsteps echoing around the empty rooms so loudly.

The echoes hit Michael’s ears, and they tease him.

Michael wishes he could hear Mom singing in the shower. He wishes he could smell Ma's cooking. He wishes someone was here to tell him to take his shoes off so he wouldn't track dirt inside. And God, Michael always thought that was so stupid because their house was never clean to begin with. But right now, he thinks he'd give just about anything to be able to trip over some knic knac or sweater left on the floor, like he always used to hate doing.

But instead he makes it outside so easily that it's the hardest thing Michael's done all night.

It’s not far to Jeremy’s house, but it feels like it takes ten times longer to get there, despite Michael almost jogging.

At least there’s a light on inside, Michael thinks. And he knows that’s Mr. Heere’s car in the driveway.

Michael slowly walks up to the door, and he stops.

Michael hasn’t been to this house in a month, ever since Jeremy swallowed that pill and stopped talking to him. It feels so weird.

And normally, Michael would just walk right in. They haven’t used the doorbell with each other since they were nine, but he can’t just walk in for so many reasons, both in his universe and whatever universe he's stuck in right now.

So Michael stands there, his hand frozen, half raised, unsure if it’s going to land on the doorknob or doorbell when the door opens in front of him.

“Oh—”

“Jeremy—” Michael says, stopping himself before he keeps talking because this guy standing at the door looks nothing like Jeremy.

This guy's hair is much longer, and looks like it could use a good wash. He’s skinny, so skinny that his sweatpants are barely staying up, and there are deep circles under his eyes.

Michael takes a step back, blinking, trying to recognize this Jeremy standing before him because it can’t be Jeremy. But, Michael would recognize those eyes anywhere, even if they’re currently widened in this weird mix of fear and utter confusion and surprise. The garbage bag in his hand slides to the floor.

“H-h-how d-do you kn-know m-m-my name?” He squeaks, so quickly and unevenly that Michael’s world tilts.

Jeremy has a stutter. Michael knows this, and he knows it only acts up when Jeremy’s really anxious or stressed, but even then, it’s not . . . Jeremy’s stutter hasn’t been that bad since third grade.

“Jere—I—” Michael swallows, because he can feel his eyes start prickling, and he knows in this universe, he doesn’t exist, that he was never born, and he knows what’s about to come tumbling from is mouth is just useless nonsense, but for a brief second that all goes out the window because it’s _Jeremy_ , his Jeremy, and this Jeremy can see Michael and is talking to him and not calling him a loser, and he needs this Jeremy to recognize him because everything else right now is utter shit, and he can accept the rest of the world falling apart around him so long as he still has Jeremy. “I-it’s me, Jeremy. Michael. It’s Michael Mell, Jere—”

But Jeremy just retreats back, further into his house. Michael can hear the sound of a television coming somewhere from inside. “Wh-wh-what—”

And Michael can’t help himself when he steps inside the house, because this house is basically his, too, and it’s always felt like his home here. And he just needs Jeremy to stop looking at him like he’s crazy—

“I’m your best friend, God, Jeremy,” And Michael knows, somewhere in the back of his brain, that he should stop. “Please, please remember me.” He’s just scaring the living daylights out of this poor kid, but Michael needs him, Michael can’t help it. “I need you to remember me, Jeremy, _please-_ ”

“I-is this s-some k-k-kind of p-p- _prank?_ ” Jeremy stops, blinking rapidly, looking for the world like Michael’s about to kill him.

“No, no,” Michael begs. He can feel his throat closing up, and he knows he’s acting out, acting crazy, but he just needs Jeremy to recognize him or else he’ll never be okay again— " _No,_ I just. We’ve been best friends for twelve years, Jeremy, do you—you don’t . . . “

“Who’s at the door?” Michael hears a voice say, an angry voice, from the other room. Mr. Heere. It’s Mr. Heere.

“D-d-dad!” Jeremy yells. Jeremy’s crying. Michael thinks he’s crying, too.

But he doesn’t want to scare Jeremy anymore, not this Jeremy.

Michael doesn’t even want to look at him anymore.

That's not Jeremy.

It's not, Michael thinks as he almost trips trying to get out of that awful imposter's house.

He can feel his breath catching in his throat, but he's not going to stop running until he can't hear Jeremy crying anymore, until he can't hear himself crying anymore.

So Michael runs, and runs, and yells for Clara. She got him here, and Michael needs to get out. Michael needs to leave and never come back to this scary world ever again.

But as Michael runs, and runs, and yells, he can't find Clara.

Before he knows it, he's bursting through the front door of Jake's house. His Christmas party is still raging at full swing, and no one even notices him crying, running though the crowd, trying to get back to where this all started, trying to get Clara to get him back, wishing someone would stop him and tease him and bully him because he's Michael fucking Mell and that's what people do to Michael Mell, and he'd give anything for someone to recognize him for who he is, even if that means someone calling him awful names or teasing him in front of everyone, because at least that means he's alive.

Michael shoves his way through the crowd, but no one stops him, and it’s suffocating. He pushes some poor dude out of his way as he darts into the bathroom, quickly closing the door behind him.

“Clara,” Michael yells, falling to his knees in front of the door. “CLARA!”

He presses his hands to his face, then presses his face into the floor, almost like he's praying.

“Clara, please get me back,” he begs. “I don't want this. I don't want this. I need my house, I need my basement, I need Chloe to hate me and Jenna to be popular, I need Brooke to be here, I-I-I—” Michael goes on and on, choking over his words. “-I need Jeremy _back._ I need him to be back to how he was, even if that makes him an asshole. I need to be alive so I can save him, please, Clara, I—” Michael needs, Michael wants.

“ _I want to live again,_ ” he cries into the floor. “Please. I want to live again . . .”

Michael chokes over another sob as it wracks through his body, and he thinks he can hear someone pounding on the door. Michael remembers, suddenly, that he forgot to lock it. He pushes himself back, scrambling to try to get the door locked, but it’s too late because the door’s already opening—

“Oh!” Chloe jumps, shocked, probably, that someone’s in here, but her surprised face shifts quickly. “Eeeew.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Michael says to her, because he doesn’t want this universe’s Chloe to hate him anymore. Michael pushes himself off the floor.

“Yeah, you better be. _God,_ ” she takes a step back as Michael steps by her, wiping the snot off his face with his sleeve. “You’re disgusting, Michael.”

And Michael almost misses it, but he feels his heart drop at his name on her lips.

"What—" He turns around to face her, "what did you say?”

“I said your fucking gross. Can’t you hear, Michael?”

Michael’s world stops spinning, so suddenly he almost falls over.

She said—

“I’m gross?” Michael can’t help the grin that explodes on his face. “ _I’m gross!_ ”

“And a fucking psycho, apparently,” Chloe’s look of disgust shifts into one that’s telling Michael he’s being insane, but Michael doesn’t care, Michael doesn’t care, because—

“I’m a gross psycho!” Michael yells, giggling hysterically, but he just can’t help it. “I love you, Chloe Valentine!”

And then she screams, disappearing into the bathroom, and Michael can’t stop laughing, because Chloe called him disgusting, because, because—

“Michael?” Brooke, somewhere to his right. “What are you doing here?”

“Brooke!” Michael looks at her. She’s alive and glowing, like the sun, and he could almost cry. “Brooke, you’re here!”

And then that wide, lazy smile he always thought was so adorable creeps up onto her face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

And she’s so drunk, because she’s actually talking to him at Jake’s Christmas party. “Who’s your ride?” Michael asks. He wants zero part of that heinous world ruining this wonderful one. 

“Jerry! Jeremy, that guy—” Brooke hiccups, leaning against Michael’s arm. Michael lets her, so happy to feel her warm and alive next to him. “—He’s so cute . . . I think I get it, Michael, what you said about him . . .”

“Yeah,” Michael says, slowly moving out from under her weight, transferring her to the wall. “Yeah, well . . . Where is he?”

Michael looks up, around. He catches a few glares as he does so.

“Over—” Brooke hiccups again. “Oh, fuck. Over there!” Brooke yells, pointing in a general direction. “Oh, God, I think I’m gonna—”

Michael scans where Brooke just pointed as Brooke stumbles into the bathroom behind him, the door slamming. Her and Chloe’s voices melt into the background as Michael spots Jeremy.

Michael can’t pull his eyes away. He doesn’t even hear the fuss that’s happening around him, the people noticing and mocking him, because all he can see is Jeremy.

He’s standing much too straight, his chest out, and his eyes aren’t darting everywhere, and he looks like he's talking so cool, so evenly, to Jake Dillenger, and Michael absolutely cannot stand it, but it’s such an improvement from that other Jeremy, that kid he saw not twenty minutes ago.

But still, it just won’t do.

Mountain Dew activates a Squip, huh?

Michael thinks he has some research to do, as someone shoves into him. He thinks he hears someone calling him something in his ear, but he hardly notices as he pushes through the crowd to leave, because parties are not his scene.

The crisp night air hits his face, cold where tears are still drying.

A seed of a plan plants itself into Michael’s brain, and he doesn’t think he’ll sleep tonight, with all the research he has to do.

He makes it to his Loser Cruiser, stepping over empty beer cans and broken bottles and pizza boxes on the lawn, happy to see that it hasn’t been keyed, parked amongst all the popular kids’ rides.

Michael unlocks the door, and is about to sit down when he notices a flash of color that wasn’t there before.

Michael looks at it. A red ribbon, tied onto his steering wheel.

Michael smiles at it.

He hasn’t ever felt so alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my whacky, tropey AU! Your comments and feedback on the last chapter were so sweet <3 Happy to say this fic is complete!


End file.
